


Payment (for services rendered)

by AngeNoir



Series: Inktober 2018 [9]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Body Horror, Deal with a Devil, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 23:43:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16252223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: Reaper never liked having to rely on O'Deorain. Still, they had been the best doctor, with the best results, and so here he was, dragging his disintegrating body into the seamy underbelly.





	Payment (for services rendered)

There were many myths and legends about the underground laboratory and surgery in the basement of London’s underbelly. Few even knew the rumors about it, fewer still knew who to ask for an introduction to see the doctor.

Reaper was one of the few that had, not just the knowledge, but the ability to find his way into the surgery.

He dragged himself, pieces of himself falling off, gears clicking and blood dripping, through the grate and secured it behind himself. His cloak swirled around his ankles, and his shotguns hit against his ribs as he nearly fell against the wall.

A mechanical creation rolled out, clanking and chittering, and he growled into his mask, scowling at the tiny thing.

Its little neck tilted up at him, and then it rolled away.

Well. At least they would be expecting him.

Making his way down the corridor, trying vainly to hold his corporeal body together, he finally made it to the doorway and shoved against the iron door. Inside was a mad scientist’s lab: beakers and test tubes, smoking liquids and mechanical gears, Bunsen burners and distillers, specimen jars and suspicious smells.

The doctor stood by a table, long, spindly fingers plucking feathers out of a small creature. A dark purple robe hung off of the narrow, trim body, and a scar covered the left eye and cheekbone of that narrow, elongated face. The fingers were tipped with ridiculously long and dangerously curved nails, and on the doctor’s back was a contraption that pulsed eerily in the low light. The greenish glow tinted the normally bright shock of red hair a deeper, almost blood-like, hue.

“You haven’t been around recently,” they drawled, voice low and regal.

“Haven’t needed to. Been careful. Stocked up,” he grunted, wheezing the words out of lungs that were disintegrating.

“Hmm.” The doctor turned around, and looked down their nose at him. “Clearly, you weren’t careful enough.”

Reaper grunted and spooled himself down onto the nearest flat surface - a bench - before huffing, “You gonna... do anything about... it?”

“I should let you suffer. Everyone else has proper respect for me and my methodology. Only you barge in here as if I owe you my tender care.”

Reaper studiously did not roll his eyes. Moira O’Deorain was a brilliant doctor, one that could rival the famed Angela Ziegler on multiple levels, but had a touchy sense of pride and a dangerous intelligence that often led them to many...  _unorthodox_  methods and treatments.

There was a reason, after all, that O’Deorain had been first let go from the Overwatch organization, and then from the Blackwatch organization.

Still, back before Reaper had fully embraced his persona and stopped trying to pretend to be someone he was clearly not, he had had the dubious pleasure of being seen and treated by O’Deorain - and O’Deorain was aware of his... unique condition, and knew how to cure it.

“What’s it... gonna cost me?” he gasped.

O’Deorain’s eyes glinted in the light. “Nothing but a favor,” the purred. “A small, simple favor.”


End file.
